


to be without musketeers

by gingergenower



Series: the garrison [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: But I wrote it because cute fluff gratification at the end if I'm honest, F/M, Fighting, Fluff, I mean there's violence, POST 3x10 SPOILERS, Violence, if you're squicky there's stitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 14:02:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7442011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingergenower/pseuds/gingergenower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The garrison is threatened, and Constance is left in charge of the cadets, but they weren't expecting a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to be without musketeers

**Author's Note:**

> okay so I’m a sucker for Constance and generally the women of the musketeers so here, have a story I’ve been trying to get right for about a year but only figured itself out with the end of series 3
> 
> SPOILERS FOR 3x10 GODDAMMIT

The garrison’s new appearance was still strange. The left was cleared of debris, in some places the cobblestones still charred, but no other damage was evident. On the right, the main building was completely rebuilt, the upper floor functioning as it used to and the lower needing furniture. They had places to sleep, and a large area for the new recruits to work, and that was all that was all they needed. The stables and storage areas weren’t a priority.

On an ordinary day, she would be in the courtyard, watching the cadets fight and teaching them herself, correcting their stance, posture, on dirty moves and better counters and when to go offensive. She spent most days like that, helping them with whatever d’Artagnan demonstrated, but the men were not playfully or otherwise duelling in the courtyard. There were locked doors for secret conversations, and Constance didn’t mind being excluded from them, but she refused to wait to know more.

Instead, she made a visit to Anne at the Louvre.

She and Aramis sat in the gardens together, watching her son play in the garden.

Constance approached them, curtseying. They didn’t appear to be talking about anything too cumbersome. 

“Your majesty,” she said.

“Constance!” she patted the bench with her hand. “Please, join us.”

“Is this a social visit?” Aramis asked. Sometimes, she was sure he wanted a fight again just for the sake of the rush he got out of it.

Constance smirked at him. “There’s nothing violent for you to do, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“What a crying shame,” he said, and Anne tried not to smile, biting the inside of her cheek.

“How’s d’Artagnan?”

“Busy,” she said. “The new cadets are showing promise, but it’s taking a lot of work.”

“I’m sure they’ll be great soldiers,” Anne said, with a gentle smile, but Aramis rolled his eyes.

“How’s their camaraderie?”

Constance raised an eyebrow at him. “One of them began last week. They don’t have your brotherhood, Aramis, but I’m sure once they’ve fought a battle together that won’t remain.”

Aramis shook his head, looking back at Louis. “A week? It took me mere moments to know I would lay down my life for a man as fine as d’Artagnan.”

Anne narrowed her eyes. “Didn’t d’Artagnan threaten Athos’ life the first time he met you?”

“Yes,” Aramis said, unconcerned.

A slight pout was Anne’s only reaction, but Constance leaned back to cuff him around the head. Anne barked out a laugh, covering her mouth with the back of her hand to hide from Aramis’ indignant glare.

“As soon as they start threatening each other with death, I’ll know it’s true love,” Constance said, and Aramis grinned.

“Of course.”

She was there for two hours, happy in their company until they had a meeting to attend, and Constance made her way back to the garrison, hopeful that the quiet and secrecy was over. She smiled on walking in the garrison- it was- but her smile faltered.

Horses were being saddled, guns loaded and swords sheathed at their hips- outside d’Artagnan’s office, there were several cadets talking in hurried voices, and Elodie was sat at the table, rocking Marie-Cessette a little too urgently. She saw Constance first, standing and rushing over.

“Constance! Where on earth did you go? Are you hurt?”

At her words, heavy footsteps and her free arm throwing itself around Constance in a tight hug, most of the men present stopped and stared at her.

The few seconds of silence, and the cadets burst into activity. She heard one of them yell something, and Elodie pulled away, looking her up and down.

“Are you _hurt_ , Constance?” she said again, and Constance frowned.

“Why would I be hurt?”

Out of his office, d’Artagnan shoved his way through the cadets and stared down at Constance. The cadets parted out of his way moments before he bolted for the stairs, running down them two at a time.

“Are you injured? Where’ve you _been_?” he said, snatching her into a hug and cupping her face with his hands, eyes running over her the way Elodie had, checking for injuries.

“I’m fine- I went to the palace,” she said, hand braced on his upper arm. “Why would I be injured?”

D’Artagnan only stared into her eyes, and then sighed and pulled her back into his arms. “Mon Dieu.”

His hand cradling the back of her head, the other flat between her shoulder blades, his body relaxed into hers. She held him back, exchanging looks with Elodie, but saying nothing.

When d’Artagnan pulled away, he swallowed.

“There have been threats made against the garrison,” he told her. “Last night, someone attacked Richart on his way back from a tavern. He’s fine, but they were trying to kill him, and it’s brought these threats into new light. I thought you had…”

“There has been nothing,” Constance said, shaking her head. “No one even approached me on my way back.”

Taking another deep breath, d’Artagnan nodded, turning to the cadets. “This changes things. I want you all armed and ready here in case we need you. Prepare weapons and artillery, and remember to keep an eye on the entrance. We don’t want any unwelcome visitors.” 

They all started towards the armoury, none of them even looking hesitant. Constance felt warm with pride.

D’Artagnan looked back at Constance and Elodie. “Arm yourselves too. We have a few bows if you prefer, Elodie, or perhaps a gun. We’re hoping to take the fight to them, but some will come here to attack the cadets.”

Constance nodded, listing the weapons she’d prefer in her mind. “Do we know who’s targeting us?”

“Old members of the Red Guard,” d’Artagnan said. “We don’t know how many, but we’ve heard whispers of where they are.”

She nodded. “Right. I’ll handle the cadets now, you focus on your fight. Go.” She kissed him, briefly, and pushed him back to his men. 

Following the cadets to the armoury, she picked up a weapons’ belt and tightened it around her waist, loading two pistols and slotting them in place, and a smaller rapier, the balance in it good for her. Elodie came up behind her, picking up the bow and all the arrows, and a gun. She was getting better with a gun.

“Where’s Marie-Cessette?”

“I’ve settled her in your husband’s office.”

“That’s a good idea,” Constance said. “We can lock her in, if necessary.”

Bringing the cadets together, she told them where to position themselves, what to do in various scenarios and how to hide if injured. The musketeers had already left.

“I’m not saying we’re going to see a second of fighting today,” Constance said, “but if we do, it will test each of you in ways you didn’t imagine. Most of all, it will test you as brothers. You need to watch each other as much as you watch the enemy. You need to fight as one. Cover each other, if the man next to you is down you get him to safety, and don’t let your guard down, even if you think the fight is over. Go.”

After the attack that destroyed the garrison, they weren’t without a plan for defending the garrison itself. Every cadet knew where to be- the best swordsmen in the bottom floor rooms, the best shots firing from the balcony. Each of them prepared cover, upturning tables along the balcony, Elodie leading the three of them.

The cadets reminded Constance of d’Artagnan; they had something to prove and everything to lose. Musketeers used to come from money, but that made them complacent in their entitlement. Picking them from the streets of Paris made them hungry in ways Constance forgot. Everything d’Artagnan offered them, they took and ran away with in fear it would be snatched back. They fought dawn till dusk, until they sweated so much their swords slipped out of their fingers, they would spend their evenings intermittently eating and polishing everything they owned, Aramis’ offhand advice to care for their weapons gospel. 

One of the boys, de La Riviére, was Constance’s find. He’d been out in the marketplace where Constance was, and a man grabbed a woman with a knife to her throat, screaming about Huguenots and their ‘blasphemy, the champions of Satan’. La Hardye threw himself on the man before Constance could force her way through the crowd to do so herself, but she saw him in action. He grabbed the man’s knife hand, snapped it away from the woman’s neck, and shoved her aside to pin the man down. It was over in a matter of seconds. Constance helped take the man to the local constable to be dealt with accordingly, and he offered to walk her home- he had no idea who she was. So, she prodded him.

He helped her because it was the right thing to do, he told her. His father taught him with a rapier young, and while he didn’t have much experience with a gun he was keen to learn. Leading him straight into the garrison, she tested his swordplay against the cadets. He won two of three fights, and she suspected he only lost the last because of exhaustion. Midway through d’Artagnan showed up, nodded his approval, and that was that. He walked in a blacksmith’s apprentice, and left a cadet.

With a good eye for another person’s weakness and dedication to his learning, she hoped that within a year his shooting would rival his sword fighting. He’d near beaten d’Artagnan in their last fight. Besides, he was only sixteen, and that was the only reason enough for d’Artagnan not to think about his ascension in the ranks yet. 

La Hardye stood beside Constance- she was a good shot, but a better swordswoman with all her practice, four other boys beside la Hardye on the bottom floor. Constance put her pistols away, and the dagger Elodie suggested in her belt. She’d tied a bag of musket balls where she normally had money, fingers playing with its strings at her side. D’Artagnan had been gone near half an hour, and they were all nearing complacent, when someone took the first shot.

The door frame next to Constance’s arm shattered, splinters spraying everywhere.

She had supposed there would be an attack, prepared for it, knew someone would come to the garrison. She hadn’t thought for a moment it would be where the main fight was, but in all, there were fourteen of the Red Guard, firing shots in rapid succession around the corner of the entrance. Constance couldn’t get a good look, but the first hits were landed by Elodie and the cadets on the balcony, their position unaccounted for but quickly adjusted to by the enemy.

Leaning her head out slightly, she got a quick glance of them. They weren’t wearing their uniforms anymore, but were heavily armed.

After the last bullet, she counted to three, turned, pointed, shot, and whipped back to cover.

She’d caught him in the upper thigh- it was good enough to slow him down, and Elodie’s arrow struck him in the chest.

The third dead soldier falling seemed to further enrage them- she and the cadets were forced to jump away from the doorframes to avoid the hail of bullets sent their way, but that gave those on the balcony more opportunity to catch them off guard. Constance took her second shot, missing completely as he dodged back too fast. She huffed, la Hardye taking her place next to the door, reloading as fast as she could.

There was a lull in the bullets, but a sudden roar of voices- Constance dropped a pistol and yanked out her sword, taking her shot at the nearest man- right in the chest- and stepping out the door, barely meeting the first strike made at her. A bullet caught him in the side, and he dropped, and an arrow felled another.

Ducking under a swing made at her face, Constance stabbed forwards, and as her opponent fell the cadets joined her, their fight coming from their bones, roaring as they struck, arrows and bullets still picking their opponents off.

Where Constance had a sword, she found herself against a duel wield, a rapier and a small sword in either hand. In the first three blows, she managed to knock the short sword out of his hand but she didn’t have time to block and his sword slammed into her side, cutting through her clothes as easily as her flesh, and she snarled, striking him across the face and plunging her dagger into his ribs, pressed against him, too close for his sword to be of any use.

Twisting, he collapsed underneath her, and she staggered back, hand pressed to her side. There was blood, but not so much she was worried. It was more shock and pain, she knew it, and she shook that away. Her cadets needed her.

Leaping forwards, she skewered one of the men in the side and the cadet he was fighting seized the opportunity to deal the death blow.

The last four were quickly overwhelmed, two of them running and the other two dying.

Constance had Elodie and her cadets stay put, in fear of another assault. The cadets carried their only injury, Talbot, inside. They were jumpy, nervous, but she had two of them press the stab in his shoulder and slow the bleeding, and la Hardye held his hand, trying to calm him. The last stood at the door, watching the entrance. Constance was deeply aware at any moment they might be pulled back into a fight as she threaded a needle with shaking hands.

She stroked Talbot’s hair out of his eyes.

“This is going to hurt,” she said, “but you need to keep still. Can you do that?”

Biting down on his own jacket, he nodded, and she started. The cadets kept up a steady stream of talking, doing their best to distract him from the pain. He was better behaved than Porthos, but the cadets still held him down.

Pulling the third stitch tight, the cadet at the door charged out, shouting for the Captain’s attention.

“Shh,” Constance said to Talbot, who whimpered, “two more, and it’ll all be over.”

All she could see was the needle, the thread, and his skin. A hand rested on her shoulder and she batted d’Artagnan away. She would not rest until she was done, her hands slicked with blood but she wasn’t shaking, and she tied it off.

Wiping her hand on her skirt, she dabbed sweat off Talbot’s brow. “Done.”

He exhaled, probably a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and dropped his head back.

“Is everyone else alright?” Constance said, looking around at the cadets.

Aside from bruises, scrapes and cuts that would heal in days, they were as close to untouched as she could hope for. Helping Talbot off the floor, they guided him back to his room to rest. Staggering to her feet, Constance clung to the hand that caught her arm and steadied her. D’Artagnan took the medical kit and needle out of her hands, passing it to one of the musketeers behind him.

“Two of them got away,” she said, “and he needs a physician, I had to stop the bleeding but I’m not sure how well I did it-”

“We bumped into them on the way back, and they surrendered, so they’re on their way to Bastille now,” he said, tucking loose hair behind her eyes. “And we’ve already sent two of the cadets to fetch a physician.”

She nodded, sighing. His hands caught her around the waist to pull her closer. She hissed in pain, leaping back, clutching her side. He followed her, glancing down at his hand to see blood, and dropped to his knees, coaxing her hands aside.

It wasn’t deep, a five inch slit along her hipbone, the leather of her jacket and her corset taking the brunt of the force, but d’Artagnan hissed. It hadn’t clotted.

“Stitches won’t hold,” Constance said, trying not to wince.

“Constance, it’s still bleeding…”

“The moment I take the corset off, the wound’s going to open up,” she said, pressing a hand over it and trying not to cry out. “Stitches won’t settle right.”

D’Artagnan covered his mouth with a fist, staring at her wound. Nodding, he stood.

“Go to our rooms, I won’t be a moment,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Musketeers, cadets, please-”

Constance walked slowly, head tall, determined not to draw unnecessary attention. Nearly at the stairs down to her rooms, she hadn’t faltered, but la Hardye appeared at her elbow.

“You were hit,” he said, voice low so as not to be heard by d’Artagnan, who was issuing instructions for all the men. “I saw it.”

“It’s not bad,” she said, the sensation of blood trickling between her fingers dampening her conviction. “It just needs seeing to.”

“I tried to help, but I was too far away-”

“Blaming yourself for something you couldn’t prevent won’t help anyone. I’m alive,” she said, wincing as she took the steps too fast. “It’ll be an irritation more than a pain soon enough, I promise you. Now, go and follow your captain’s orders, even though I’m certain you don’t know what they are.”

His lips twisted into a smile, leaving her.

In the room, she could muster no more energy than required to reach the bed and lower herself onto her uninjured side, her arm acting as her pillow, the other draped over her stomach, boots kicked off the end of the bed.

D’Artagnan rushed in, closing and locking the door behind him, the medical supplies and fresh bandages in hand.

“I don’t think you’ve ever so successfully avoided all the fighting,” she said, watching him drop his jacket and weapons next to her boots.

He kept his breathing very firmly calm, uncorking a bottle of wine. “We rode for half an hour, and when we reached the tavern, they’d already left. I-” Eyes closed, he shook his head. “Can you sit up?”

He took most of her weight, sitting her on the edge of the bed and passing her the bottle of wine. She gulped it down, and he climbed on the bed behind her, fingers deftly unlacing her corset. He worked his way down, and at first the shifting of her body as he uncovered her spine didn’t bother her, but it loosened around the wound and she hissed, drinking the wine straight from the bottle like Porthos. 

“Constance-”

“Please, just.”

He loosened it enough to peel it away from the wound, and she grabbed out, squeezing the mattress and biting her lip as the skin adjusted to its freedom, opening the wound like a blooming flower, the slit edges pulling away from each other.

D’Artagnan practically ripped it off, and with it gone she was lightheaded. He scrambled off the bed, lifting away her shirt and wrapping her waist in bandages, over and over until the blood didn’t seep through them, tying it off. She watched him take a swig of the wine too, putting it down to help her stand.

She climbed out of her shirt- ripped and ruined- pulling on the first she grabbed, one of d’Artagnan’s. Taking off her skirts, she climbed into bed, and he crawled in next to her, mirroring her position a few inches away to avoid jostling her.

“Don’t you have responsibilities?” she said, her fingers tangled in his between them, drifting awake for the third time. His eyes hadn’t moved from her face.

“Only to be at your side.”

She smiled, closing her eyes again. With the door shut and locked, she could only hear his breathing, every rustle of the sheets. 

“The cadets fought like brothers.”

“You led them. They said you fought like they’d never seen.”

She squeezed his hand. “I wasn’t dying. Not without you to hold me.”

He said something else, but she fell asleep again.

**Author's Note:**

> pls lemme know what you think this story took me a whileee


End file.
